Over Analyzation
by Nallasariel the Weeper
Summary: A collection of Artemis Fowl short stories and poetry, most of which are either humorous or have a decidedly angsty bent to them. Includes limericks, Arty-torture (Psychological only, of course), a Butler-poem and a one-way AH. Crim stuff too.
1. Inconvenient

Inconvenient

_Written for the Criminality fanfiction challenge, July-August.___

Yes, I am adamantly against non-platonic A/H. Yes, I am a hypocrite. Now that we have that out of our way…

* * *

Holly had nothing to do. That itself was a wonder, considering how much Mud Men liked to create more work for her.

However, it went without saying that Holly, suddenly having this free evening, decided to relax at home for once. The ferns were watered, the mud-tub filled. The lights were played down to a relaxing green, and the air was thick with humidity. Everything was set for a good, long soak.

She clicked her stubby nails rhythmically on the polished mahogany tub rim, turning off the faucet that brought the custom-mixed mud from Above to Below. It had been on sale at _Acacia's Indoor Adventures_ nearly thirty years ago, and it had only been used a few times. The first was after she had landed a job in Recon. This would be the second, after Artemis Fowl lost his memories.

Holly pulled off her copy of the Book from around her neck, setting it carefully on the floor where it wouldn't get splashed. Foaly had confirmed that, after a week of strict surveillance, that Artemis had indeed lost his memories. She would know that first-hand. She had been one of the three chosen to do the supervision.

She squeezed her eyes shut, stripping off the first layer of the green LEP jumpsuit. Holly Short, Ash Vein and Blue Wormwood, all planting the minute cameras. Holly, Ash and Blue, spying on the People's most feared enemy. Holly, Ash and Blue, all pitying Artemis' emotional turmoil.

There had been a close call, only one, when the Fowls were eating dinner. Blue had found a small nick in the ceiling, just big enough for a button-camera. He hadn't been counting on the loose paint layer at the top, weak from a century of humidity. It had come raining down on him and the Fowls, disrupting their near-silent meal. Artemis had looked up then, eyes connecting directly with the haze, before continuing with the pea soup. Angeline had mentioned getting the ceiling re-painted, but other then that, the dinner continued in that eerie silence that hallmarked Artemis' change.

Her jumpsuit fell to the floor, and she started with the white insulation layer. There had been a flicker in Artemis' eyes, one that went between his mother and father at the head of the small table. There had been recognition, a kind of shock as he realized what would cause that dust-speckled haze…

"No," Holly whispered, letting the last of her clothes fall to the floor. The mud-tub bubbled invitingly, and she slipped into it, letting the sulfur-laced semi-liquid ooze into her pores. She had set this up to let her body absorb minerals the archaic way; and, more importantly, to _forget _everything. Not to think about what she should have done.

Her thoughts continued anyways, spinning with the EQ of an infant. She should have said something, no, _done _something to stop the Council. They wanted the mind wipe, and they got it. She should have argued for him, helped him escape…

He had been good. He had changed. Everyone one that had seen him knew it. But the Council didn't gamble; Vinyáya had several bad experiences with that. And since the nearly disastrous incident with B'wa Kell, they took no chances at all. They went by hard-core evidence, and only used wishy-washy material Argon came up with when it went their way. Artemis was a variable, and they didn't like anything unpredictable confusing everything.

_Damn scientists, _Holly thought angrily, realizing full well that that category included Foaly. Hedidn't protest the wipe either. _They only trust their precious research. Artemis wouldn't be good yet, no-o. Why would he have changed over one year? Why would he care for something besides his own damn self?_

She sunk further into the slime-bubbles, shame enveloping her like the thick mud. Fumes from the mire made her eyes water, giving her excuse to let the tears run down. He was different. He had something—something else. Artemis may still like his gold a tad too much, but at least he was willing to put himself in danger if it meant saving the People.

Holly sat up suddenly, mud sliding off of her like a lethargic glacier. Why in Frond's sake was she worrying about a Mud Boy? He could take care of himself. He had never even gone hungry in his life. Now he didn't have to worry about whether his schemes messed with People-troubles. He just had to look out for his own damn self.

He would do that now. His personality had changed drastically, becoming, if possible, worse then that monstrosity that had held her captive in the basement cell.

She slowly slid back into the mud, letting it caress her wearied limbs. Once she would have enjoyed the bath, taking a secret delight in the fact that she could not get suddenly called back into action again.

Once, she would have liked to prove herself again and again by responding quickly and readily to such calls, but that was a different _once-upon-a-time. _That was the green recruit who wore her uniform to bed and took her vitamins every morning. The other _once _was the Holly worn down by a few dozen years of hard, non-stop service that battered her physically and emotionally.

Holly _now_ suddenly decided that she wanted to listen to the radio, and perhaps drown out her rebellious thoughts.

Radio in the Underground was one of the more complex systems around. Mud People might be listening in on traditional radio channels, making it potentially deadly to do as such. In reality the People had created radio first, using it when humans were still hopping around wondering what would happen if they fell of the edge of the world. However, due to the slowly increasing intelligence of the species, in recent years radio usage has been restricted to those stations that could afford to knock out Mud-Men stations that interfered with their own. Even this was being rapidly stopped as Mud-Men realized that not all the interference was caused by distance and solid objects.

As soon as the sweeping violin-like sound started, Holly groaned. Her least favorite DJ, Spruce-Joe was on. Not only did he like Mud-Men music, but his own selection of music usually contained badly-made mimics of them. Nothing quite like that 'Avril Lasagna' to ruin one's day.

The radio turned off as swiftly as it had turned on, and the erratic sound of bubbles popping replaced it. D'Arvit, but everything was becoming more and more like Men with each passing year. Even pixies, whom Holly had at least a bare respect for, had begun mimicking Mud Maid cosmetics. Before she knew it, they would probably begin to play _The Sims _or some other Mud game.

She nearly laughed. The People called humans Mud-Men, but the People bathed in mud almost as much as they did, if not more.

_I just didn't think about Artemis for a minute, _she thought suddenly, and sunk further into the mud. _D'Arvit_

Slowly, she crept back out of the mud when she saw a shadow move.

It was probably her imagination. A dwarf creeping through the house, playing the pervert…

No, it _was _her imagination. It was just the shadow of a fern-frond, trembling in the faint breeze coming from the humidifier.

"This is not going to work…" she moaned, picking herself out from the indented tub. Her pores cried out to crawl back into the muck, thoroughly enjoying the sulfur soak, but she snatched a convenient towel and scrubbed the mud off until her skin burned with the friction. Silky pajamas—some damn Indian priest stole that idea from the People too—went on, caressing her skin in yet another soothing embrace.

Why, why, _why_, did she have to think about ArtemisAll she wanted was to not think about anything for one damn hour…

She deftly pushed the button that would drain and rinse the mud-tub, and scooped up the various pieces to her LEP uniform. Of all the things in the world, she had to think about _Artemis_.

She stopped when she reached her somewhat immaculate living room—immaculate because she hadn't been doing much living in it. She had to think her thoughts through.

The clothes dropped on the floor, and she pushed aside her LEP helmet to sit down in a comfortable teal chair. Why was she thinking about Artemis? Because he was the biggest thing in her life since joining Recon. It had to be.

_D'Arvit__, that's not it either, _she thought, curling up into a tight ball between the armrests. The blue-green nylon made no comment.

Her eyes went to the ceiling, where the certain lack of paint revealed the soundproof lining. She had had it installed for a reason. She was an elf, and elves were, well, emotional. And being in Recon would be an emotional job. She had taken advantage of it more then once.

A look of horror suddenly crossed her face, her eyes widening to the size of a swear-toad's derrière. She suddenly knew why she was thinking about Artemis.

"D'Arvit," Holly breathed, shaking her head. It wasn't physical; far from it. Mud Men were about as repulsive to her as a goblin. Emotionally, he was the equivalent of Attilia the Hun. Neither of the two standard forms of attraction, then.

She looked back up at the ceiling, and then sat up on the couch, taking a deep breath.

"Love can be so damn inconvenient!"

* * *

The Old: Artemis/Holly

The New: Mud-Tub

The Borrowed: 'Love can be so damn inconvenient' – _­Inconvenient_, rythmteck, 'The Pirates of the Caribbean'

The Blue: Blue Wormwood, new LEP recruit (OC)

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


	2. Tears of the Never

Tears of the Never

_Written in honor of Blue Yeti, and her fantastic work in both Artemis-essays and stories._

_Ah, and a quick challenge: see how much symbolism you can catch in this. I layered them thicker then the Antarctic Ice Sheet, and I doubt you'll be able to catch them all. Many are obvious, and some even explained openly, but most are hidden beneath layers of details and other symbolisms. Gotta catch them all (Pokémon!). _

_This may or may not be considered part of the _Of Magic and Mayhem _sequence. Take your pick, although you may find more from it if the latter is true. At least, you will when the first one is complete… **evil cackle**_

* * *

Artemis blinked sleepily, barely containing a yawn. Twenty-one at night and he was already tired? Perhaps those caffeine tablets Father recommended weren't as good as he had said… 

He shook his head, trying to dispel such thoughts and the weariness threatening to engulf him. The recommendation had been part of yet another of Father's attempts to grow closer to him, a gift that would surely appeal to a time-starved mind such as his. Thoughtful, yes, but not effective. And besides, since when did he like Father, let alone trust his words even in such trivial matters? He was hardly someone to idolize.

_"Finally, there's your father. According to this, he wasn't much of a role model, even when he was alive."_

He rubbed his eyes, this time yawning openly. He really must be more tired then he thought if he was hallucinating. No more late nights of star-gazing, perhaps?

_Only a bit longer,_ he thought to himself, and forced his eyes open to look at his creation.

He had spent many long hours painting in his room, one of the few places Mother dared not come to annoy him about dinner and such, preferring the classic _Supper!_ to his increasingly cold responses. Only a dim halogen light lit the room, making it appear smaller—much smaller—then it actually was and casting fuzzy shadows across the very Spartan carpet. His computer's monitor glowed in an unhealthy light near his bed, flickering through security cameras planted throughout the house.

It had started as a simple forgery, as he was becoming so adept at doing, of a piece by Sendak. The predicted earnings from this project were only a few grand, and probably not even worth his time to do. A profit to counteract Father's schemeless spending would be slim at best, and now impossible by how long of a project it was becoming. Besides, Artemis was almost tempted to keep this one for himself and add something to his otherwise barren room.

It depicted a stylized fairy with metallic wings looking down at a metropolitan area—Chicago?—with mixed pity and disgust. Its—her—eyes were hazel, barely visible through a haze of tears.

A smile tugged at his bloodless lips, followed by a yawn. Holly hated Mud Men with a fervor that rivaled his own desire for gold. Aurum est Protestas, after all.

Wait… _Holly_?

Artemis shook his head. Days without sleep were really getting to him. He might actually make a mistake for once.

Yawning again, Artemis placed his acrylic brush besides the half-finished painting. He would continue it in the morning, after sending Juliet for marmalade and some toast.

Despite his resolve to sleep, Artemis found it difficult to do anything beyond an extended blink. A disobedient, somewhat overactive imagination could do that to anyone, especially if the easel kept becoming a hybridization of a bloodthirsty elephant and a very unhappy gorilla.

Hours later, tossing and turning in the hard bed, Artemis finally fell asleep, brain buzzing with life's little mysteries.

* * *

_Chess… _

_"Queen to D-eight," Artemis said coldly, eyeing his opponent warily. Sitting on a box was Holly._

_He didn't even know if that was her real name, but something about her tugged at his mind in a most distracting fashion. She had short red-brown hair, obviously just cut, and a lithe frame covered by some sort of green jumpsuit. The only thing that kept them at eye-level was a pair of milk cartons, but had they been sitting closer together he knew he would have easily dwarfed her petite body. Small, callused hands lay neatly clenched in her lap, the only outward sign of any self-control. But the thing that Artemis noticed the most was her eyes. Darting, hazel eyes._

_She grinned at him as she tipped one of his pawns over, and he smiled tautly in return. Females were tricky. He was making mistakes. They were not mutually exclusive._

_He ordered another piece to move, vaguely wondering who she was. He needed to know his opponent._

_Artemis squinted imperceptibly, trying to read her name badge, It was only his subconscious that suggested that her name was Holly, and he did not believe in all that magical wishy-washy mythology. He needed something solid._

_Holly—if that was her name—winked roguishly at him when she caught the line of his gaze. "Can you read it, Artemis? Or has your Almighty intellect failed you?" She ordered her knight, some sort of grinning maniac with a large, nasty gun and a parka, to threaten his bishop._

_He frowned, taking a closer look at his threatened piece. Was that his mother?_

_He received a sharp kick from beneath the table. Wincing slightly, he looked across the chessboard towards the grinning Holly._

_Her smile broadened when she saw how uncomfortable this made Artemis, and she moved her knight forward to place the bishop-Angeline in a form of check. "You owe me, Mud Boy. I brought your mother back to you, and I can take her back just as easily."_

_Artemis found himself answering in a most peculiar manner. "I paid you for her sanity years ago in gold."_

_She smiled again, but it was mocking smile. "You put a price on a human life, Artemis. Gold is worth no one's life."_

_"You accepted it," Artemis pointed out. Panic edged his otherwise cool and collected voice._

_Holly's smile could not have been colder—not as like Artemis'—as it did when she took the Queen._

_"Give her back," Artemis ordered icily, his voice slightly higher then usual._

_Holly smiled again, warmly this time. "Why?" Her voice seemed far away, and echoed strangely in the surreal grasslands surrounding them. "You did not do anything for her before, so why should you care now?"_

_Artemis blinked away a strange wetness in his eyes, but when he opened them again everything was gone._

_

* * *

_

_"Mother?" he asked to the darkness, his voice small and afraid. He suddenly did not feel like the calm, logical Artemis that took both trolls and terror in stride, but the Artemis that was still that afraid little boy that clung to Butler's massive neck after a nightmare. He was Arty._

_Juliet's voice shot through the darkness, oddly flat yet accusing. "Madame Fowl is not here, Arty. May I please take a message?"_

_"I need to speak to her now." His voice was still petite with more then a little shakiness to it._

_"I'm sorry, but she's gone for forever. May I please take a message?"_

_"Where is she?" His voice was now openly trembling. Had he fists in the dream, they would have been curled in fright._

_"Lost in herself. May I please take a message?"_

_The strange wetness returned to his eyes, but he kept them at bay. "When is she coming back?"_

_There was a large_ pop_, like the sound of Juliet's favored_ Bazooka _bubble-gum snapping. "Never. May I please take a message?"_

_"Bring me to her!" he cried to the darkness, salty water flowing down his rapidly condensing face. "Bring me to my mother!"_

_Juliet's voice came again, lightly mocking. "Be a little more polite to your servants next time, Arty. A bit nicer and you wouldn't have gotten what was coming to you."_

_Artemis, the Artemis that was coldly observing the frightened boy, found himself emerging. "I happen to enjoy what came to me. Money and riches is something I happen to hold near and dear to my heart."_

_"I pity you, Artemis." The voice was Juliet's still, but not the bored tones of the average American teenager. It was true scorn. "You just don't care about anything. You'll never hold another human's hand, or laugh with a friend. No, scratch that; you're not even human. You're one of those damn machines out of Asimov, except you disregard all the rules."_

_There was a thin crescent smile upon what of his face had materialized as he faded back into the gloom. "Being a robot would not be so bad. I wouldn't have to deal with fools like you."_

_But then why did he not believe his own words?_

_

* * *

_

_Chess again. Artemis moved his knight, a massive hulk of a man that resembled Butler, forward._

_"Ooh, bad move Artemis," Holly said mockingly, moving her suspiciously troll-like knight to challenge the emotionless giant. He was oddly reminded of the shape his easel took when he was trying to sleep earlier._

_"How so? He is protected by my King," Artemis pointed out, an elegant finger tracing the crown of the named figurine. It looked very much like a slightly younger Artemis._

_Holly's eyes danced with humor. "So the great Artemis Fowl would put himself in danger?" Her own finger, much shorter then his, lazily touched her Queen. Artemis noted the same dimple in each of their cheeks._

_He shrugged, waiting patiently for her to move. "Knights are valuable. They should not be sacrificed lightly."_

_What amusement sparkled in her hazel eyes disappeared, replaced by flat anger. "Why sacrifice him at all? Why not save him?"_

_One crescent of an eyebrow was raised. "Men can be bought easily." He gestured towards the scattered ranks of pawns. "These can replace him, although it shall take a while. The game is not worth one man."_

_Her hazel eyes were gleaming with rage. "That is exactly the point! If you think human souls are replaceable, then you are no better the Spiro!"_

_The name must have meant something to dream-Artemis, since he stiffened. "I am not Spiro. Besides, this is only a chess game. Not real life."_

_Holly threw her minute hands up into the air. "You know what I mean, Artemis! We were talking about much more then a foolish game, and you know it, you—you monster!"_

_"If I be a monster, then I be a rich monster," the cold part of his mind replied, the part that was still firmly Artemis._

_Holly's eyes darkened once more as she took Butler—no, it was but a knight—with her Queen. "He is mine now, by honor and life, twice-over, and I keep him. But you, dear Artemis, have some inner demons to face."_

_

* * *

_

_It was a large fencing studio, polished hardwood floor nearly blinding with the warm sunlight pooling across it. Walls, little more then the paper-screens of olde-worlde Japan, glowed with the afternoon sunlight._

_There were two fencers in the center, both of approximately the same height. One had Samurai-like armor on it, the helmet obscuring his face with the dark leathers and metals. What little skin that was exposed was pale, white as any Japanese complexion. A slender blade, seemingly washed in silver or platinum, lazily sliced circles through the air._

_The other wore clothing that would not have been out of place in the Coliseum of ancient Rome; leather sandals whose cords were laced up to the knee, leather tunic with small pieces of lead embedded in it. In one muscular hand he bore a gleaming bronze trident, and in the other a net of woven roots._

_Each raised their respective weapons, crossing them at the tips._

_"Epée," said the Samurai._

_The Gladiator gave a great battle-cry, and drew back the trident to stab violently into the Samurai._

_The Samurai leapt back lightly, parrying the flashing trident elegantly. His every move was exact and fluid, every graceful parry calculated. He made no blows of his own, instead turning back the fierce rain of stabs to attempt to unbalance the Gladiator. Dark eyes gleamed with cold determination behind the black mask, but were unwaveringly icy._

_The Gladiator, by comparison, seemed a blur of deadliness, his blows fast but also exact as he spun from duck to thrust. If the Samurai's face was determined, then his had nothing—only the cold, blank look not dissimilar to a poker-face._

_Dream-Artemis was mesmerized by the flashing battle, absorbing every movement. It seemed a dance almost, everything thought of in an intricate duel that spanned much more then just how hard you could kick someone. It was all calculation, predicting and acting on what the next opponent might do. Although their faces for the most part remained obscured, no sweat seemed to appear. The dance was a practiced one, then, one that had only a separate note here and there each time._

_The Gladiator suddenly fell, rolling away from the Samurai after a well-aimed kick to his mid-section broke the rule of his passivity. The Samurai did not pursue._

_When the Gladiator leapt back up to his feet, there was an almost amused look in his emotionless eyes. "Didn't want to strike an unarmed man? You could have won, you know." He thrust forward with the trident, trying to catch the leaping blade of narrow steel between its prongs._

_The Samurai's glance remained icy as his blade flew easily from the trap. "I did it because I have honor. Not because I wish to let you live."_

_The Gladiator's crescent-smile was visible through the narrow slit in the similarly bronze visor as he pivoted to deal a vicious back-handed slash with his trident. "Tell me something," he said, jumping back from the swift counter-blow. "Why is it that the Samurai always leech power off the poorer folk around them? Legend shall always remember them with a certain romance, yes, but what of the starving children you tossed out of their homes when their parents could no longer pay their due? What of the money you hoarded for yourself while others died in the gutter?"_

_That blow struck home, if not that of the spiked fist. The Samurai's eyes seemed to darken to a storm-cloud blue. "I did that because I needed to survive when the danger was past. If children were thrown out of their homes, it was because they could to afford out services and were a liability to the community. I may live for myself, but I have my honor. There are some places I would never go." Unspoken words rang as clear as leaded glass in the studio, adding an echo to the clash of steel and bronze._

_The Gladiator smiled his sliver-smile. "Samurai were not so different from gladiators. Fighting is our profession, and without it we are nothing. We live on the edge of a blade; one misstep and another shall have our throats, whether in vengeance or for their own greed. Many hate us, cursing us for what we did to them, but others are drawn by the romance of battle and of the blade. Do not think we are so different, for at our hearts we are the same. Your 'honor' is only a thin veneer that hides your true motives, cruelty given a toga and the approval of the Senate.."_

_"It is not so!" the Samurai cried, and lunged desperately at the Gladiator._

_That was his mistake._

_The Gladiator leapt aside and delivered a kick to the exposed backside as he stumbled forward. The Samurai fell like rain in a summer storm, but before he could roll away and regroup the Gladiator slammed his foot down on the slender blade beneath his hobnailed feet. He picked it up quickly, and placed all four points at the Samurai's bared throat._

_"Trapped," he gloated, pressing the blades into the pale flesh. "Trapped in your own game."_

_The Samurai's hands were a blur as he swept the points away with only shallow cuts as a price, rolling out and over. His leap up was met by only with the as-yet unused net, entangling him in its web of weighted rope._

_The Gladiator pushed him down, pinning the Samurai's hands beneath his feet. The trapped warrior winced noticeably as the spikes embedded in the sandal's soles dug into his thinly-armored arms._

_"You were always too noble to play mind-games with people," the Gladiator said, "it was always me. You think it cruel to toy with people now. You have never killed, and it is your weakness. You care for more then yourself, and it is your weakness." The Samurai-blade twisted deeper into his neck, drawing another thin line of blood across. "I only serve myself, and that is why I shall always be better then you."_

_His twilight-blue eyes were cold as he stabbed the blade through the Samurai's heart._

_Even Samurai armor, the best of its kind for hundreds of years, could not stop Damascus-like steel. A narrow hole, almost imperceptible amongst the deep black veneer of the ceramic-and-leather, was cut, and blood began to blossom from the gap. His eyes remained dark, but they glistened with pain as the blood began to trickle down and across his side._

_The Gladiator wiped the blade mockingly on the mortally wounded man's chest, letting it slice through the leather in some places. The armor shone like the heart of a ruby. "I have never been defeated. You had been twice now. The first you were defeated by sheer miscalculation, but had a back-up. And this time… " He smiled vampiricly. "You had none. Goodbye, my nemesis. He dropped the Samurai's sword to the ground, and turned to go._

_The Samurai's eyes closed slowly, eyelids fluttering, then opened again when he heard the clatter of the sword. Slowly, painfully, silently, he brought one gauntleted hand over to where the sword lay…._

_The Gladiator never saw it coming, thinking the battle won. The still-bloody sword slid cleanly between his ribs, slicing upwards into his heart and coming up through his skin to pierce the leather tunic._

_He fell backwards, knees folding beneath him. Their blood pooled together in the mellow sunlight, mingling without through or care for their differences. At the core, they were one and the same._

_The Samurai smiled. Blood leaked through his open mouth, painting his bloodless lips crimson. "You are wrong, if only for the first time," he rasped. His black armor shone strangely, changed by the blood pooling on its surface. "I always leave myself a back exit. Always." He coughed, and more blood bubbled from his mouthpiece._

_The Gladiator had fallen next to the Samurai, his helmeted head touching his opponent's. "We destroyed ourselves," he said, his voice similarly raspy. Artemis realized, with no small amount of astonishment, that the voices were eerily the same._

_The Samurai smiled again, although it was weaker. "This is an honorable way to die," he said, "by the blade. I once thought I'd die at an assassin's bullet, but this is much better." He grimaced beneath the armor, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Still, so many—things to say—Butler—Juliet—" His eyes fluttered closed, but they trembled open again. "Holly…"_

_"Touching," the Gladiator said coldly. His eyes were closing too, and the blade still within him remained imbedded. His back was arched painfully where the hilt was unable to pierce through his skin and follow the blade through. "You simply care…too much…"_

_The Gladiator's eyes flickered towards the Samurai, struggling valiantly to stay open. The other warrior's body was still, but his eyes were open, glazing rapidly with death._

_He shuddered suddenly, relaxing his back and letting the hilt twist beneath his body. The sword, driven by this motion, continued to slice through his body, ripping a gaping doorway to his internal organs._

_One of the outside walls shattered, and a troop of people spilled forth. Artemis numbly recognized them as the Butler siblings—Juliet and Butler—and Holly. A centaur stepped out as well, but he remained only half-out of the torn cream-hued paper._

_Juliet and Butler were there first, bending over the twin carcasses. Juliet didn't seem to care that blood was ruining her slim Levi's._

_"He died too soon," Butler said quietly. His eyes were shining with tears. It was the first time Artemis had seen him show anything other then annoyance—or had it been?_

_Juliet nodded her plaited head, turning as Holly kneeled besides her. She was not afraid of showing emotions; tears ran like rain down her cheeks, trailing glittering green eye-shadow. "If we were here sooner—" She broke off abruptly, but the meaning remained. It did not have to happen._

_Dream-Artemis, completely unnoticed by everyone, tried to get a better look at Holly's face, but her back was turned to him._

_Wordlessly, numbly, mechanically, Holly began slipping the helmet from the Samurai's limp head. Her hands shook too much to get anything done._

_Juliet placed her hands over Holly's, dwarfing the petite digits. "Don't," she said softly. The tears had stopped flowing, only the smeared make-up showing they ever even existed. "The pain is still too near."_

_Holly shook her buzz-cut-ed head. "No," she said hollowly, steadying her hand. Dream-Artemis was immobilized to the spot. "If I can shoot a damn medallion out of the air, I can shoot this."_

_It was a poor jest, even without the fact Artemis did not understand it, but Juliet laughed weakly. Butler sat with an iron expression on his face, one that would soon be rusted._

_Holly's hands, aided with Juliet's and even the massive Butler's, slipped each helmet off._

_Dream-Artemis could not see the faces of the slain warriors; all three of the living now sat in the way._

_"We never saw it until it was too late," Juliet said sadly. "And it was right under our noses. We were just too damn insensitive."_

_Holly shook her head. "No. He would have destroyed himself, in the end." Her hand stroked something. All Artemis could tell was that it was a head._

_Suddenly Butler broke down, bowing his shaven head. Juliet leaned over onto her brother's shoulder, fresh tears slipping down her black-and-green face and mingling with Butler's._

_Holly sat alone, slightly apart from the siblings. In her lap must have been the head of the Samurai, since her body rocked back and forth, the otherwise still body moving with it vaguely. A torrent of tears cascaded down her face, falling down and mixing with the blood on the floor._

_Dream-Artemis was suddenly able to see what face she was crying over._

_It was his, one gauntleted hand thrown across the body of his Gladiator-twin._

_And Foaly, hidden behind the tattered wall, was smiling bitterly._

_

* * *

_

_Chess._

_Holly smiled across the table at him, tearless yet as bitter as orange marmalade._

_Artemis looked down at the chessboard for a few moments, and then he put the white King in check. He smiled vampiricly across the board. "I suppose there's some kind of Grimms moral behind all this?"_

_"Of course," Holly replied, moving the Queen to take one of the plentiful pawns._

_Artemis frowned, then smiled again. "That is an illegal move, Captain."_

_Realization dawned on Holly's face, but she hid it quickly. She did not like being wrong. "How so?"_

_The smile upturned at the corners. "You are still in check. Next move, I can take your King."_

_Holly leaned across the table, small face looking up to meet Artemis' eyes. "Do you happen to remember what I said after we first met?"_

_Artemis shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I do not have that pleasure anymore." The remnant of his smile disappeared. "Thanks to you."_

_Holly shrugged the pointed remark off as a troll a Neutrino blast. "Not even a bit?" she pressed. "In your study?"_

_Artemis' eyes narrowed. "What is the point of this exchange?" he asked coldly, eyeing the elf with suspicion._

_"I said: 'If you're a good boy, I'd get you a lollipop'."_

_"Again; the point is?"_

_Her expression soured, and she withdrew from his side of the board. "You don't get a lollipop."_

_Artemis, entranced, watched her hand move across the board and tip her King over._

_A million calculations ran through his head as the piece fell. It all fit. No matter what move she did to try and save her King, it would fail. It was not check but checkmate; not a win but a victory. How could he not notice? All the pieces had been set, waiting for him to move that one little knight—_

_When he looked up again, Holly's fist connected squarely with his nose, breaking it cleanly. He was dimly aware through a veil of flashing lights that she was talking._

_"You know what the moral is? Huh?! Don't mess with what you were born to do, Artemis, Arty, whatever's running your brain right now. You weren't born to be a damn emotionless criminal, just like I wasn't born to be flippin' hominy patties in Spud's Spud Emporium. The only reason why you think you can do all this is because your father got kidnapped, but he's back now! Don't you get it?!"_

_The veil cleared, revealing a very distressed Holly. Her eyes were shining with tears. "You don't have to be this cold villain anymore! Your father's back! Don't you get it?"_

_Artemis reached up and gingerly touched the place where Holly had punched him. It hurt. A lot._

_Holly looked at him expectantly. The glisten in her eyes was gone. "Well?"_

_Artemis smiled grimly, and flicked the Queen off the board with an elegant finger. "I think I should wake up now, since I don't even know you."_

_And he did. The last thing he heard before he awoke was Holly's anguished cry._

* * *

Artemis blinked at his picture. Another day, another trance, and suddenly the picture was something else entirely. Holly, or whatever her name was, was gone, replaced by a very traditional faerie. The sort you see on half-rate fantasy books with the iridescent dragonfly wings and the large violet eyes. The red-brown hair had been lengthened, as per modern stereotypes of fantasy = long hair, gender regardless. Tears flowed openly down the perfect alabaster skin, more a waterfall then the standard trickle. Yes, this one would go to the market. Perhaps even get on the cover of one of those named books. Jordan, perhaps, or that Colfer. 

He paused, and dipped his brush into the cream, swirling it gently to mix a bit more white in. The painting remained something of a symbol of the classic Magic-versus-Technology sort, as depicted in countless of those same half-rate fantasy novels before and still would be for another millennium. The only true difference laid in the small white chess queen he put in the fairy's hand before attending to his toast-and-marmalade breakfast.

* * *

Please do not give away individual symbolisms in reviews except for the ones that were obvious (Gladiator-Samurai, for example). If you would like to discuss them with me, especially if you happen to be a symbologist, feel free to use email. I'm ever so curious to see how much my readers caught. 

And small things – the difference between 'fairy' in the beginning and 'faerie' at the end – are symbolisms that were very much on purpose. If you see something like that, assume that it was intentional.

Please excuse small OOC anomalies. Dreams, like this, hardly care for the truth.

Yes, I realize that it would be impossible to illustrate his own creator's book. Excuse my own private joke.

No one except myself and Telpyvien have looked at this. If someone would be willing to take a look (AKA beta-read), I am open. Please.

The URL to Blue Yeti's site can be found on her bio (Sorry it's not here. The Pit does not let me have links in stories).

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


	3. Birds of a Feather

* * *

Birds of a Feather

_Please have at least have watched _The Lord of the Rings, _if not read the entire incredible series. Knowledge of _The Silmarillion _or _Unfinished Tales _would help as well._

_The separation between Holly's 'elf', 'elfs' and 'elfin' and ME's 'Elf', 'Elves' and 'Elven' was done on purpose. Same with words like 'Dwarf'._

* * *

One would normally expect an Elf _not_ to be in a cold, dark cave with only a rather sarcastic Dwarf for company. Normally.

You see, Legolas Thranduilion was not one to show fear in the face of his dear friend and annoying rival, Gimli. Although the instinctive Elven fear of the dark welled up within him each time the torch nearly flickered out, he refused to lose face in front of the Dwarf. He represented the entire Elven race and his fair realm in Ithilian, just as Gimli represented the Aglarond, the Glittering Caves they were in now.

Legolas shivered as a cool wind murmured past his elegantly pointed ears, whispering of deep, dark places within the heart of the caves. He hated these caves, hated the faint wind that came from the terrors of the unknown, but loved the beauty of the glittering facets reflected in the torchlight. He loved and hated it, just as he loved and hated the Sea.

"The Sea…" he murmured, and pain came to his heart. Ever since he had heard the keening cry of the white gulls, the Sea called for him, that unmistakable yearning for home.

He closed his eyes against the swirling darkness, letting images of the Sea wash across him like azure waves. The call of the white gulls echoed through his mind, mingling with the sound of the pounding Sea, a music too strong to ignore.

An answering call rose up within him, rising like that tide within his mind. His mouth parted in soundless wonder, and the world around him froze as the Sea dominated his senses. He could feel the sea-spray from that visit, so very long ago, hit him, wetting his face as he watched the beautiful yet ugly Sea.

His Galadrim bow fell from his unfeeling fingers, making the actively chattering Gimli pause in his reminiscing about the Incident with Shadowfax.

"Legolas?" Gimli asked cautiously, gripping his torch tightly. "Is something wrong?"

The wood-Elf did not answer, and the concerned Dwarf could see the blue-gray of the Sea reflected in his eyes.

"Legolas?" Gimli asked again, concern rising in his voice.

The Prince pitched forward in the darkness, his glazed eyes unseeing in the gloom. Gimli cried out, dropping the torch and leaping forward to catch his friend. Legolas slumped in his arms, his mouth moving in a wordless song to the Sea.

It was only his distinctive Elven glow that lit the cavern now, illuminating the twinkling crystals and throwing pale rainbows across the floor.

"Wake up!" Gimli cried, setting Legolas' limp form on the sandy floor. The Elf's golden hair spilled from its loose clasp, threads of gold on the pale face of the Prince. His slight glow dimmed as the roar of the Sea filled his mind, tearing at his spirit more surely then the Haradrim blades of past battles.

Gimli looked around him frantically, watching in horror as Legolas' Elven glow dimmed in the glittering cave. He knew that his friend hated the dark, bearing these long trips into the deep only for the sake of their friendship.

Legolas' angular features twisted into pain, his mouth contorting into a soundless scream. Gimli shook the Elf's shoulders helplessly, crying out for him to come back.

And then Legolas' light went out, leaving the pair alone within the depths of Aglarond.

* * *

Captain Holly Short of the LEP was, for the first time in her life, lost.

She looked down around her, trying to find her hands in the inky blackness. Although this was, granted, far better then listening to that bimbo Lili Frond during the board meeting, but it certainly wasn't the best thing to do in the world. A matter of fact, she was positive that the nettle shake at home was still on the counter, waiting to be drunk…

She was shocked rather abruptly from her daydreams of how she would go about drinking a nettle shake—I'm not even going to touch on that—when startled cries rang out in the darkness. Panic rippled through her when she realized they weren't in Gnommic. Mud Men must be here.

Her lip curled in disdain as she clutched her pen, the closest thing to a weapon she had been able to grab, tightly. Mud Men, the humans, had long ago chased her race of Fairy People from the surface of the Earth, forcing them to take refuge underground and polluting their former homes. Now living in great underground hollows, they had started many new cities, including Haven and the now-sunken Atlantis, avoiding all contact with the hated Mud Men.

Whispers, not of the faint subterranean wind, came past her pointed ears, carrying pieces of far-off conversations. She cocked her head, waiting patiently for her inherent gift of tongues to kick in.

When it did, she reeled back in shock. Another elf? Here?

Dead?

She scrabbled up from the sandy floor she had been resting on, brushing away dirt pebbles she knew to be there. It was her duty as an LEP officer to aid any of the People in need, even if she was in formal attire with a pen as a lethal weapon.

Holly reached out to find the wall of the cave, but gasped in pain as something pricked her hand. Was this place lined with daggers or something…?

_Maybe it's Howler's Peak,_ she thought fearfully, clutching her slightly wounded hand to her chest. _Maybe the Council's putting me here because of the Artemis Fowl affairs…_

"No," she whispered furiously to herself, and cringed when the word echoed through the caverns, amplified until it became a near-shout.

The desperate sounds from this 'elf' silenced, and Holly could hear the primeval sound of a weapon drawn. Not good.

"Come out from your hiding place, _Orc_," a gruff voice rumbled, and Holly clutched the pen tighter. "Come out and meet my ax."

This time it only took a few moments for Holly to translate the crude words, although the meaning of 'Orc' was lost to her.

She bit her lip nervously, silently cursing Foaly for convincing her to try out his new gadget behind Lili's babbling back. If she hadn't pushed that stupid little button, she might not even be in this mess.

But there was the matter at hand, and whoever it was is a potential hostile. "I'm armed!" she shouted, trying to sound as brave as she could. It sounded like a kitten's attempt at a roar. "And I'm not an Orc!" She waved the silver pen aloft, hoping that it might scare him off if he could see in the perpetual dark.

A muffled oath rang out, followed by the sound of steel on rock—probably flint. A flickering light began to shine, reflected as if from far away, and although it only dimly lit the cavern it was enough to show Holly what those 'daggers' were.

All around her, jewels covered the walls, throwing rainbows across the white sand and ceiling. The cave seemed alight with the colors of million gemstones, and the rich white and rose marble that dominated that wall glowed with a life of its own. This was certainly not in Haven anymore.

"D'Arvit," she breathed, and winced again as the sound echoed loudly throughout the chamber.

The light got brighter, and from around one bejeweled corner came someone whom she least expected. A dwarf.

Actually, he resembled more of the contents of a medieval armory; in one hand he held a mighty battle-ax with an edge a bit too sharp for Holly's comfort, and in the other callused hand a flickering torch. Beneath a blaze of messy auburn hair that greatly resembled hers before she got the buzz-cut she could see a coat of bright silvery mail and a throwing-ax bandolier. It was his bright eyes that caught hers, and she could see her own astonishment reflecting in his.

Holly took the offensive, raising the small silver pen threateningly. "I'm warning you…"

The dwarf's face puckered slightly as he regarded her and then, without warning, turned away from her and began to trudge back up the corridor.

Holly looked after his retreating figure apprehensively. She had no source of light, and that _thing_ was taking the torch with him. He seemed to know these caves better then her anyways, so…

Again cursing the dratted green skirt, she ran after the dwarf. "Wait up!" she called out, shoving the pen into her decorative black belt—another object she had come to regret. It fell right back onto the sandy floor, but she didn't notice. "Wait for me!"

When she caught up with the dwarf, she was surprised to note that he had lost any interest whatsoever in scaring her off. She knew that he was some type of warrior—those axes were too sharp for cutting mere wood—but any good fighter knew not to be off-guard with a potential hostile. Not that she would _look_ like a hostile, especially not with the damn green skirt and silver pen in her belt.

The dwarf looked back over his shoulder, an extremely worried expression on his face. "Go away. I have better things to do then to deal with a lost Dwarven maiden."

Holly glared at the back of his snarly head. He thought she was a dwarf! "I can come along," she insisted stubbornly, choosing to ignore his incorrect assumption.

"The residential caverns are to your left, little girl," the dwarf said, jutting the head of his ax towards the left fork of a junction. He took the right. So did she.

"I don't live here," she stated, half-running to keep up with him. He was walking very fast, despite his short legs. "And I'm not a little girl; I'm eighty-four."

The dwarf snorted in disbelief. "If you're not a Dwarf and not an Elf, you'd have to be either Orc, Human, or Halfling. You don't smell like an Orc, and if you're as old as you say you are you can't be human or Halfling. Besides, you're too short."

Holly bristled. She didn't like being called short, despite her last name. "I'm an elf, in the LEPrecon division of the Lower Elements Police and—"

"And I'm a horse's rear end. If you're an Elf, you'd have to be a child and—"

He paused suddenly in the hallway, and Holly had to skid to keep herself from impaling herself on his ax. "You're an Elf?"

Holly glared at him again for good measure and crossed her arms across her chest. "Yes, and proud of it."

"Can you do magic?" he asked, sounding hopeful beneath the layer of gruffness.

She nodded, and the dwarf snatched her arm, now half-dragging her through the corridors. "I am Lord Gimli of the Aglarond. My friend and comrade Lord Legolas of Ithilian is grievously hurt, and can't do anything because of his Sea-longing—"

"Sea-longing?" Holly interrupted, nearly slamming into a large quartz crystal because of Gimli's fevered pace.

"He longs for Valinor," Gimli said quickly, and stopped short when the corridor opened up into another massive cavern.

On the floor was this 'Legolas', his fair face contorted in pain. His golden hair was askew, contrasting sharply with both his deep green tunic and white sand on the floor. There could be little doubt he was an elf by his pointed ears, but elfs were _short_!

Gimli half-pushed her towards the writhing figure on the floor, his voice a concerned whisper. "Do something!"

Holly took a deep breath, and bent down besides Legolas. He was very beautiful and noble-looking, ethereal and fey. His blue-gray eyes were wide and unseeing, and Holly thought she could see the power of his Sea-longing beating within them, waves upon the shores of his memory. It must be terrible to be so torn in two, to be in one place and yet yearn for another…

_Sucks to be him,_ Holly decided concisely, and placed her hands on either side of his pale face. His elegant hands spasmed slightly as she touched him, but she held on tightly.

_Heal,_ she willed, and felt the electric tingle of the rejuvenating blue sparks run down her arms. _Heal._

And so it was; the brilliant motes of blue ran through Legolas' body, making his long limbs fly out. One arm raked her cheek, a slightly over-long nail making a long cut down her cheek. An extra azure spark moved lazily up her body and healed it, but she was too absorbed in the patient before her to notice.

His body was strange, alien to her. It was reminiscent of how humans were built, but better… it was perfect. Few scars remained due to the fast healing rate she could feel in his blood, and she could also tell he had a magic of his own, deeper and more powerful then anything she had ever seen before. The thing that the blue sparks concentrated on was something within his chest, but, whatever it was, it refused to heal. It didn't feel like a wound, but it wasn't something good either. She was positive it was this that was causing his strange state of shock.

Gimli touched her shoulder lightly, breaking her concentration only slightly. "Is he healed?" His gruff voice seemed far away, as if spoken from the depths of Atlantis to downtown Haven.

Sweat broke out on Holly's brow, and she nudged away the proffered hand. "I don't know," she gasped, and more sparks flooded from her in a liquid stream of sapphire.

"You're not an Elf!" Gimli exclaimed suddenly, and Holly felt the cold bite of his ax against her neck. "What are you doing to him?!"

"Healing him," Holly said through gritted teeth, not believing this stubborn dwarf. He was honest-to-Frond worse then Lili and Foaly! "And I am an elf!"

The blade pressed closer to her skin, shaving the hairs from the nape of her neck. "Step away from Legolas, or you shall learn of how well Dwarves forge their _mithril_ axes!"

Holly shook her head, wincing as the ax dug deeper. She was so close! "Can't," she managed to gasp. She wouldn't be able to break the connection between her and the other elf if she had wanted to.

"YES YOU CAN!" roared Gimli, and he tried to yank Holly back from the blue-glowing Legolas. He was rewarded with a shot of electric-blue, and fell back, senseless, to the sandy floor.

The endless flood continued from Holly's taut fingers to Legolas, and the cave brightened in the brilliant blue light, throwing cool rainbows across the ground as if it were the invention of color. It was not until the last of the sparks crossed into Legolas that Holly fell back, slipping into an exhausted faint. The last thing she saw before falling into a dream of wringing Foaly's centauran neck was the concerned faces of Gimli and Legolas, looking over her…

* * *

"Mmmph," said Holly, still in the throes of a pleasant dream. So far, Foaly had several carrots whacked over his head repeatedly, Artemis Fowl had been stepped on repeatedly by an over-large troll, and Butler had been forced to watch pro-wrestling with his little sister Juliet. It was most enjoyable, in a demonic sense.

"'Mmmph' yourself. A voice at her side said grumpily, just heard over the distant roar of a waterfall. Holly opened her eyes. Except all she saw was black, punctuated by a few motes of yellow light. A blindfold?

The darkness dissipated as the smooth cloth was pulled off of her eyes, revealing a creamy green ceiling elaborately painted with a latticework of green leaves.

Holly turned onto her side, but then clutched her head when memories washed over her.

"Where am I?" she moaned, brushing back a few tendrils of hair from her aching head—long hair. But she had a buzz cut!

Two figures besides the bed glanced at each other worriedly. One, suspiciously like the dwarf she had met but cleaner, cleared his throat and shuffled around nervously in the beautiful room. "You've been asleep."

Holly snorted. "Obviously."

The tall man—no, the elf Legolas—nudged Gimli in the ribs from his chair. "Just tell her," he said. Holly was surprised to note that he was wearing a silver-green that matched the room. Was this his home?

"Tell me what?" Holly inquired, propping herself up on one elbow. She blushed slightly when she realized that she didn't remember changing onto the all-too-ladylike dusky blue nightgown.

Gimli took a deep breath. "Since healing Legolas, we haven't been able to wake you."

"And…?"

"You've been asleep for a year."

Suffice to say, Holly was not pleased. "WHAT?! I've been gone from Haven for AGES I've missed my HEARING Artemis Fowl probably pulled another STUNT—" The rant ended abruptly when she clapped her small hands to her head. "And I'm 85! I'm an old crone! AAAAH!"

Legolas bent over the bed, and pressed an elegant finger to Holly's forehead. White light flashed, and Holly suddenly collapsed onto the bed, her face abnormally calm and peaceful.

"She didn't take the news very well," Gimli stated, bringing one of the cool white sheets to cover the snoring officer.

Legolas snorted. "To quote a very wise woman, 'obviously'."

"She's a Dwarf."

"Elf."

"Whatever."

And the pair watched as Holly snored, a small dribble of drool trickling out of the corner of her tart mouth. Gimli stared at her a little overlong, earning another nudge in the ribs from Legolas. "Should Galadriel be jealous?" the wood-Elf teased.

Gimli nudged him considerably harder. "No one could ever compete with the Lady Galadriel," he said loftily, brushing imaginary dust particles from his chain mail. He had already polished it this morning in hopes of Holly awakening.

Legolas winked at Gimli—a habit picked up from the rangers of Ithilian. "I do believe Lord Celeborn no longer had need to be envious."

Gimli said something indistinct deep within his throat, and waddled out of the room. Legolas was left looking thoughtfully after the Dwarf, and then back towards Holly.

In her long coma she had cried out many times, calling for her lost father as a child in fear, calling out for her friends 'Root' and 'Foaly', and, most of all, for blood-curdling vengeance against Artemis Fowl. She had earned Legolas' and Gimli's respect as she spilled out her life's tale in the throes of her nightmares, and the wonder of the other Elves in Ithilian.

He smiled slightly, and dabbed cool water onto her forehead with a damp cloth. She murmured some curse, 'D'Arvit', beneath her breath and her eyelids trembled as she fought imaginary foes in a distant dream.

Gimli had barely left her side after they dragged her sleeping body from Aglarond, feeling guilty that he was the one who caused her coma. When it had become clear that Dwarven medicine would not heal her, Legolas brought her to his colony in fair Ithilian. She had, after all, saved him from the strange state of shock with her queer magic.

Even his Elven healers from his father's court in Mirkwood had been unable to bring her from her sleep. King Elessar Telcontar himself, once known as his _mellon_ Aragorn, had visited Amon-Hen, where Legolas kept court. He had tried to raise the by then legendary 'sleeping beauty', but even _athelas_ had been unable to rouse her.

His slight smile broadened when Gimli reentered the room, carrying a bounty of Elven food undoubtedly stolen from the kitchens. He was as nearly enchanted by the strange Elf-Dwarf as the local bards by her, barely having left her side for the entire year.

Gimli scowled at the Elf-lord after he settled the tray at Holly's bedside. "What?! Is it so wrong to care for a fellow Dwarf?" The one thing they could not agree on about her was _what_ she was; she was as short and uncouth as a Dwarf, but her face was of Elven descent, pointed ears and all.

Legolas smirked, running an elegant hand through his silver-blonde hair. "So you _do_ care for her?" he teased.

Gimli reddened noticeably. "Not in _that_ way," he mumbled eventually. "But we Dwarves have to stick together with evil Elves like you running about."

"How close?"

"I heard that! Anyways, birds of a feather flock together. It's a golden rule."

Legolas snickered, and dabbed at her sweaty forehead again with the white cloth. "Don't insult the lady, dear Gimli. It's not a kind thing to do."

"Hey!"

_No tales tell of Captain Holly Short in Middle-Earth; perhaps she returned home to Haven and faded from the tavern-halls into a classic ballad. Or perhaps she stayed in fair Ithilian, wedding Gimli son of Glóin and returning as his bride to the __Glittering__Caves__ of Aglarond. Think what you well, and bear in mind the tale of Sleeping Beauty._

* * *

No, I am not a Gimli fangirl. If anyone, I like Celebrimbor (Telpy, you did not just read that.)

Also, there will be no sequel, even if it does call for one.

The companion to this is 'Sea-shells by the Sea-shore', found in my 'In Search of Wisdom' collection (The Pit does not allow links, unfortunately.)

If anyone is interested in editing it—this is far from perfect—feel free to email me.

Here are the reviews from the old posting:

* * *

**mirkwoodmage** (Signed)

NO.NOT.HOLLY!She.CAN.NOT.MARRY.Gimli.EVIL.AUTHOR!

* * *

**NatzandtheRatz** (Signed)

heh. brilliant! Whoo a Gimli fangirl! I knew there had to be one out there somewhere... Anyhoo, gr8 fic!  
Natz

* * *

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**Kelsey** (Anonymous)

I'm confused. This is good. I've never heard of a story where Holly falls into Middle Earth.  
COME ON! you can take this so much further. what would life be like for her in ME? What would happen? This is Holly Short. Trouble is sure to follow.(and I don't meant the kelp kind)  
Holly and GIMLI? WOW. I didn't expect that. I was expecting Holly/Legolas. They would make a cute, if not odd couple. Sort of like an elf and a hobbit. At least they're both immortal. sort of.  
write more. this can become so good! Holly in ME? good fic ahead. IF you take the challenge and continue this fic. or at least write a sequel.

* * *

****

**Techy**** El Nerd** (Signed)

Funny and weird, and it actually made some sense to me because I just re-reached Mount Doom with Frodo and Sam. Some things I didn't understand though, probably for the same reason. (I'm astounded how much I forgot, I had said that the movie was good, but the book was better, but now that I'm re-reading it I need to rephrase that. The movie was crap compared to the book.)

* * *

**ADSpencer** (Signed)

Ha! That was fun!

* * *

**Dalamar Nightson** (Signed)

This is really good! It's funny, and well written as well, and shows deep knowledge of both series. Congratulations, and I hope you write more.

* * *

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


	4. Ever

Ever

_For all the __Butlers__, the Cerberii, the Sams. Wish I had one._

* * *

Not all bow before those chosen rules, 

Not all believe in God,

Yet rebellion breeds those many fools,

Thus plans will have flaws…

It comes through woven lies,

Free of its cage,

Cruel memory is its cry,

Malignant in rage.

There is nothing between,

Death and forsaken,

For the unleasher has not seen,

How he was mistaken.

Yet comes light from despair,

Strong and still tall,

He walks without care,

And fights it as he falls.

Too many times has he done this,

His heart now broken,

Although, bitter be his wish,

Artemis must never be forsaken.

He shall not be remembered,

Ever shall they say _adieu_.

But as long as there's desire's ember,

There'll be a man in the shadows.

* * *

Excuse the odd formatting. The Pit is horrendous. 

Too abstract, but oh well. Easier then writing lo-ong eight-page Fëanor ballads that I _still _have to finish. sigh

That was s'pposed to be 'bout Butler and Artemis. Probably didn't come through.

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


	5. Katydid Kata

**Katydid Kata**

****

_Originally written for a CTL-9 assignment (hard to believe I got this from _The Cask of Amontillado, _I know), but I was thinking of Blue Yeti while I wrote this. She's been on my mind a lot lately. Does it show?_

_This is a highly incomplete story. __This is the first time I have ever tried to write from the 1st Person, and it most certainly did not go very well. If anyone's willing to give me a good beta for this that is decent at the 1st, please, _please _email me._

_

* * *

****_

_"You are not my son_."

It is so hard to believe these words, even after six years. I would say that they hurt, except they don't. I am unashamed to admit that _he _is not my father either.

Perhaps a touch of background would help. My name is Artemis Fowl, and although legally I am _the Second _as well, I consider myself the only true Artemis Fowl. Father, as I shall call him for simplicity's sake, is nothing more than a soft-hearted fool that has never been worthy of the Fowl name.

Truth be told, I have a hard time believing he ever was cold-hearted criminal that I am today. I know that, once, he shunned me as I shun him today, but those were the years before Katie.

Ah, Katie, _Katydid Kata!_ I remember her name as I remember little else; it was her death that led to those anguished words of Father. She was someone of little consequence, barely a moment in the cold years of my life all those long seasons ago, when my mind was still so far from total perfection…

I digress. I am no writer, and, to tell you again, am no weak human. Perfection is my goal, and although I doubt I shall ever achieve it in the short lifespan I have been cursed with, I cannot pause long. This tale may only serve as something to lighten my mind for a few days; years from now, I may even suffer the extreme depression and eventual suicide all genii are fated with.

But I remember Katie, Katydid Kata. And now, to stop the darkness of my shadowed mind from taking hold, I shall pass my memories on to you.

* * *

I know that, long ago, I thought memories a gift, something so sacred that its elimination was a horror beyond even death. Yet that was in the fierce thoughts of my short youth, when all superstition and paltry emotions had not been stripped away. Memories are a curse, and the pain of what once was can be… overwhelming to the silken efficiency that my mind has achieved.

I doubt that you shall understand me, O Nameless One who has been cursed with this account, but I do not particularly care. I am far separated from the petty affairs of humanity; life has become simply a window to look through, to experiment with to my pleasure. I believe the only reason why I have not decided to shut that window is because my body still wishes to live. For now, I shall let it eat and sleep and function on the edges of normality. Perhaps, after this tale is done and the pages scattered to the winds of the Emerald Isle, I shall shut the blinds and close the curtains. Perhaps I shall open them a little wider, and take off the screen with which I keep myself separate and pure.

I believe the former is the most likely to occur.

I met Katie, or Katriana Isolde, as her birth certificate states, in my sixteenth year of life. Father, since my bodyguard's fatal heart attack a year before and our maid's elopement to America, had become increasingly worried about security. The Russian Mafiya, ever since Father's mysterious escape, has been out for our blood—Mother died in a car-bombing shortly after Father's return. Until we found a permanent bodyguard, he wished us to learn some small self-defense.

I was enrolled in the Dublin Institute of Martial Arts on my fifteenth birthday. I looked much the same then as I do now; chin-length black hair, almost feminine in its texture and length. My eyes were Father's, dark blue that could almost seem black unless one spent too long looking at them (In which case, I would take the proper security precautions and have them removed from my presence). My frame was somewhat gawky, as I had just had a growth spurt, and my body itself thin from a strict diet.

The Institute can no longer be found on Dublin maps, as the bomb resulted in its demolition by entrepreneuring landowners, but I shall get to that later. It was an old brick building, although ivy did not grow due to the manager's more contemporary aesthetic preferences, facing one of the older streets—I can't remember which one. In any case, you may assume that the manager's tastes led to some odd conflicts in style; I may not be as fashion-savvy as the former maid, but naked metal looks rather… odd next to Persian rugs in the entryway.

The floor of the training room was hardwood, probably spruce by the grain and musky smell, with grooves along the bars by the mirrors where ballerinas once dipped and fluttered like swans. Yet the rest of the room was painted a glaring white; not the gently muted tones of off-white, but the sort that is found on newly bleached teeth. The fluorescent lighting only made this worse, giving everyone an unhealthy glow to their skin.

I remember, in a conversation that shall not be part of this narrative, Katie's comment that I looked like a vampire beneath these lights. I had smiled.

I think I blinked when I first entered the too-white, too-bright room. I think everyone did.

"_Syn?_"Father had asked, clutching my shoulder gently. "Son? Are you sure you want to do this?"

I smiled. For some reason, my smile always put people on the defense; in this case, it was on purpose. Father had been the one that had pushed me to do this. He deserved a vampire's, perhaps the Baron Dracula's, wrath for taking time away from my books. "Of course, sir." I was always respectful to Father back then, even with my mild distaste for him. I still had those foolish notions about trusting one's parents. Six months later, I wouldn't even give Father a sign of emotion.

He sighed deeply. He looked similar to my current state; the lines of a candle's flame burning out were already beginning to crease his face, even at the young age of thirty-six. His hair was just beginning to gray after Mother's death; I remember seeing those first strands of silver with something close to horror. Naïveté had not yet been completely scoured away with the harsh reality of logic. "Do try and be friendly, Arty. Our years on Earth are numbered, and friendship shall let them linger a bit longer."

_Linger._ I did not want to linger; I wanted to remain forever, like a bastion of strength from which all else shall cower. I had great ambitions back then, foolish ones that spoke of being remembered forever and continuing the Fowl name. To increase in wealth—gold—was the only thing that truly concerned me, and was at the heart of everything I did. So very foolish…

Had I been willing to tell the truth, I would have said: _Never, Father. I saw what happened to you after Mother died. Love kills you in the end_. Now, I can't help but wonder how things would have happened if I had actually said that. I would have never met Katydid Kata, Katie, who had changed and doomed me through her death. I might have even run away and died in some gang-ridden alley in Dublin.

Instead, I smiled again. An involuntary wince flickered on Father's face; he did not like my smile. "Yes, Father. I shall try."

I left him there by the door, striding out in the pose the old bodyguard had taught me; legs always slightly bent, ready to spring back at the slightest danger, and hands loosely curled. I was also watching my surroundings, another valuable skill that I had cultured on my own. The bodyguard—his name may be one of the few things I wish I still did remember—had said this once: _The trick to learning is not to listen, or to read, but to keep your eyes open. Always open_.

That has been proven true time and time again. After careful analyzation of the already-sparring people on the floor, I chose to stand by the group of other white belts and observe from a relatively inconspicuous place.

I planted myself squarely between a young brunette, who seemed about my age, and a boy of similar facial structure. They were probably siblings, although I never bothered to find out. Or perhaps I simply don't remember.

The girl turned to me. There wasn't anything special about her, unless you count the mole above the right corner of her mouth. Her bone structure was light and bird-like, as many of Welsh descent are, and her eyes a simple gray that probably came from English blood as well. "You new too?" she had asked. It was at that point I noticed she didn't have the lilt that most Irish have; her words were crisp, accented with that famous British _twang_.

Her words also put me off a bit, in the beginning, but one of my rambling thoughts has decided it preferred this to the full: _Are you new as well?_ Fewer muscles and oxygen was required to speak so, although it still causes a dip in the metaphoric Respect-O-Meter.

I remember blinking at the hand she stretched out between us. After a hesitation, I took it and shook firmly. I'm not sure why I did it, although it may have been surprise. If you believe Einstein's theory on alternate universes, perhaps in all the other ones I spat in it or ignored her.

She grinned at me, shaking my hand enthusiastically. "Strong grip," she remarked.

When I responded by pulling my hand out, she smiled again; the faint uplift to the right side of her mouth. More of a smirk than anything, but there was no mockery in it. I remember liking that smile immensely. It reminded me of something—someone. Perhaps some childhood friend, or a former enemy that had died with that smile and a bullet through the cranium.

I think that name was Mistletoe. Or Rowan. Or Holly.

"Silent too," she had said, still smiling. "You one of those rich Irish boys?"

I thought carefully before answering. "You could say that."

She gave me a funny look. "Friendly too," she said at last. "D'you have a name?"

"Yes."

The corner of her mouth uplifted again, crinkling the skin around her right eye. "Can you say it aloud for the whole class to hear?" she asked, gently mimicking the tones of a clichéd schoolteacher.

I spared myself a glance at the room. The _sensei_ didn't appear anywhere nearer to starting. "Yes."

A full smile this time. "Tell me it," she commanded, "and don't go looking for loopholes this time."

"Artemis Fowl."

Before she could respond, the _sensei_ clapped his hands briskly together. Had I bothered to remember what he looked like, I would describe it to you, but it is not important to the story.

Before I continue with this meaningless tale, let me explain something. I have made it a priority to forget human bonds. The memories that are before you in the oh-so-classic _Times New Roman_ font are the ones that I have failed to forget, the moments that flicker across that window of life with annoying regularity. There are holes between them, time-gaps that cannot be filled with logic and reasoning since the human mind is not a reasonable thing, nor a logical thing.

The next time I saw Katydid Kata was during the next session, which I believe was sometime in the next week. She had arrived after me, and, after smiling in her odd way, she flounced on over. I remember noticing that she had few curves. Although this may make me sound… ah… _es chaud_, to put it in the oh-so-delicate French language, I did this because I must watch to learn. Domovoi—I think that was his name—told me this.

This told me she was relatively young, or at least late to develop.

"Hey, Artemis!" she exclaimed, standing in front of me. Her grin widened to both sides of the mouth when she saw my discomfort.

I eyed her coldly, and straightened the simple white—off-white, not bright-white—uniform I had been given. "Yes?"

"My name's Katriana Isolde," she responded, as if her senses were programmed to ignore anything hostile, "or Katie, if you prefer. My friends call me Katydid Kata. _Katydid _'cause I jump like a bug. _Kata_'cause I have good memory."

My eyebrows rose. I remember this because she had laughed at my expression. "Isolde?" I had asked. _Isolde _was a character from Irish mythology, and certainly not a surname. Hardy a compliment either.

She laughed again. "Yes, _Isolde_!" Then, by way of explanation, she added, "My dad decided he wanted a name to help us integrate into Ireland better. _Isolde _was the first name of one of his girlfriends in London."

I wanted to ask a question—I'm not entirely sure what—but the _sensei_ clapped his hands again.

Our next encounter was not until three months later. Father wanted me to start driving, and I am cautious by nature. A favorable characteristic, in my opinion, but certainly not one that the other drivers appreciate.

She smiled at me. I must admit that her smile had appeared almost routine to me; whenever we went through those meaningless dances of _kata_, she gave me that half-grin. It was somewhat amusing, in a strange way. Knowing how I was back then, and especially how I was after Mother's and the bodyguard's death, I was probably beginning to think her a friend.

"Hello, Katriana," I had said.

She smiled at me again. She had begun growing out her hair; when I had first seen her, her hair was short and bobbed, sensibly cut back. Now it was darker, as winter had begun to blow cold and harsh outside the Institute's doors, and ended in a lingering fashion just above her shoulders. "Call me _Katydid Kata_," she responded, amused.

I remember smiling at her as well. She recoiled, but only a little. A surprisingly mild reaction. "_Klutz _may be a better pseudonym." This referred to an incident several weeks ago, when she tripped during a spar and landed on her opponent's feet.

She laughed again. Perhaps I was growing too familiar with her, for I smiled too. "I think I prefer _Katydid Kata_, Arty."

My smiled faded. "Don't call me Arty."

"Whyever not?"

I paused, trying to think. I certainly wasn't used to people talking back like that; most people knew the name of a Fowl, and what to expect. Finally, I settled with: "It is none of your concern."

She laughed. She actually laughed. This probably made me madder than any of the weakness I had showed in front of her. "If we're going to be friends, _Arty_, we can't keep secrets. Like did you know that my dad works for Interpol?"

"Really. In that case, I am most _certainly _not interested in talking to you." I turned, waiting for the eventual clap of the _sensei_. The long, repetitious patterns of the _katas_ never seemed more engaging.

I'm not sure what happened next. I wish I did; what words that may have passed between us might be that shadow lurking in my mind now, that darkness that flickers but is not lost. It was probably caused by a concussion; my memories are, in many places, fractured from my early life. Not at all desired in some cases, if not most.

In any case, the bomb blew then. Later, in those cold evenings spent recuperating in Fowl Manor, I would learn that our new bodyguard had set off the bomb; he had been hired to kill Father and I from the beginning. I would later order him shot and thrown into the Atlantic.

The next thing I remember of any consequence was pulling myself from beneath a slab of gypsum siding. My left arm was broken, although, fortunately, I was right-minded and handed. Contrary to popular belief, not all genii are 'lefties'.

The Institute was more-or-less intact. The windows, few as they were, were all blown out; the ceiling had all fallen out until the first mocking gray sky patches bled through the darkness above.

The blast had come in from below, probably originating from the basement. There were probably other focal points, other bombs on different stories, but it does not particularly matter at the present. The worn floorboards were all lackadaisical, like a thousand card decks that had all been left in various stages of bridging.

My first thought was for Katie. I know how utterly stupid and sentimental this was of me; today, I would never do something like that. I don't think I would have ever done that before those endless karate lessons. Katie's odd half-smiles had put me in a peculiar mind-set. Mother had been like that as well, and even the dead maid—who, I remember now, had died in a hit-and-run orchestrated by the Chicago Mafia—had caused… strange behaviors.

The pain from my broken arm stopped me, jolting me into the cold calculation that is the epitome of me today. Katie did not matter. The broken arm did; a bone splinter had erupted through the skin, severing the brachial artery. Dark red blood oozed from the unicorn-like projection as a glacier through a valley; slowly, but inevitable.

I stripped off my still-white belt, wrapping it quickly around my left arm and tightening it just above the wound in a half-tourniquet that would slow circulation, but not cause permanent damage.

When I could spare thought to escape, I was surprised. Few people were even visible; I had been lucky that the slabs from above had only shed a few stories in my area. The majority of the sparring pairs were buried under ten stories of combined bricks from the walls, ceiling panels and floor tiles. Later, I would learn that there were only fifteen survivors of the fifty-person session. The _sensei _died. I'm not sure why I remember that.

I do remember Katie, though, and I do know why. Her hand, alabaster from the gypsum dust that had been rendered atmospheric by the explosion(s), was sticking out from beneath a nearby tile.

My eyes continued to wander, following the inevitable path of the broken arm. A head, red, brown and white, was there, and the slight body beneath the shadowed eaves of the many layers of tile and panels.

Then the screaming started.

It must have taken at least thirty seconds for it to start, and I cannot pass this off as poor reaction time; many were faster than Domovoi, the old bodyguard. _Most_ might not have been an overstatement.

But the screams…

It is truly strange how they haunt me. Their variance and pitches were comparable to a symphony; here and there the high, trembling tones of a flute could be heard, crying out for their mothers. Bass tones—bellowing tones, the sound of dying elephants—came from the elder blackbelts. There was the percussion, the steady beat of hail on the broken roof-top ten stories above and where it had begun to meteor through the ragged holes. I could hear others, too—the low, mournful moan of the French Horns, knowing that they're dying but crying out anyways. Many of the sounds blended together, although some were ever doomed to stand out; an infant's scream, the keening wail of piccolo, was heard above the music and silenced as its time had ended.

And there was the applause. The continued rain of bricks and panels, dust and tiles, from above, further burying some. Here and there was the dull _thud _of it striking already broken bodies.

The music continued, undulating with the sound of applause and the slicing notes of polylingual curses—trumpets, to my mind.

You shall probably think me sick for thinking this, O Cursed One, but I must say the music was… invigorating. I think it was then that I first began to truly think clearly. Why should I care for Katie? Why at all? Why even… for the world?

Hate me if you will, but, after fashioning a loose sling from the remaining length of my belt, I began to leave.

I had barely made it past Katie when Father came. When there is a loud noise in the reason, remember this; it was probably a Fowl's doing. Unless I do choose to end the window of life, my network of crime shall only spread, manipulating the world as I see fit.

Father was ever a sentimental one. Even in that time that he cared little for the toddler that crawled on his lap and tried to read _Science_, he cried.

He cried here. He cried as he ran towards me.

I wonder how it is that he knew it was me. When I first visited him in the hospital, he knew I was there without even opening his eyes—and just before Mother died, she could tell that something bad was about to happen. If my window of life does not close, I believe the 'sixth sense' shall be something to look into.

When Father reached me, the tears were already cleansing his face of the gypsum dust lacing the air. Remembering that the powder could eventually lead to lung cancer, I used the sleeve to filter the atmosphere.

"Arty!" he cried, reaching forward and clutching my left shoulder. I winced at the momentary jolt of pain.

I took the cloth off of my mouth long enough to answer. "Yes?"

He seemed surprised at my cold response, but took me into his arms anyways, wrapping his thin arms around me. I didn't hug him back, choosing instead to tap my foot impatiently against a cracked gypsum board. The sound was lost amongst the endless encore of screams.

He didn't say anything for a long time. It felt very awkward; his arms traveled up and down my back, sometimes squeezing and sometimes just resting lightly across the no-longer off-white karate _gei_. He was sobbing into my shoulder—bassoon, on the higher notes that make it stutter and weep like a poorly-played oboe.

I know that before he disappeared all those long years ago, I would have enjoyed this, as Katie might have wished this from me—although her intentions were certainly not romantically inclined. When emotions were like tobacco or heroine to me—I suppressed the desire for them, but the only came back fiercer and stronger until I gave in, letting the tears flow or the laughter ring.

But I could never get enough of it. I think that was what was wrong with Father here.

He disgusts me.

But I didn't draw away. I stood there.

I disgust myself.

"_…when you're strange… you see faces in the rain…"_

I remember those words. I hear them often on the radio that Father leaves on downstairs in the kitchen, before I turn it off. Those were the words Katie spoke then, still alive beneath the gypsum slabs.

She sung them slightly out of tune, and her British accent tore them from the original rhythm. I didn't particularly care.

Father let go of me, finally, with the air of someone that has been pulled from an impossibly bitter dream. "Who was that?"

A stupid question. I answered nonetheless. "Katriana Isolde."

She was hallucinating, I think: _"…when you're strange… no one remembers your name…_"

Father turned to me when he saw I didn't leap to help. "Aren't you going to help?"

I shook my head, smiling. "No, _Père_. My arm needs professional attention."

It was true; the blood has begun to stain my _gei_a brilliant crimson that, in some places, had dried and been coated with dust, rendering it a light shade of coral pink. The bone still stuck out; a unicorn horn encrusted with ruby droplets.

Father stared at me, then bent down, pushing, in vain, on the gypsum slabs.

"_…blood ro—_Arty? That you? –_ses blood roses…"_

Father turned to me. His already white hands appeared like that of a ghost. "You know her, and you're not _helping_?! What is _wrong_ with you?"

I cocked my head, still smiling slightly. Katriana Isolde, Katie, Katydid Kata, whatever you wish to call her, had stopped singing in that delusional voice. Another flute dropped from the symphony, but no one noticed; there were always too many damn flautists in the world. "Nothing, Father. I simply came back to my senses."

He stared at me, mixed emotions passing in turn across his face; confusion, anger, despair, and, finally, pity. "You are not my son, Artemis."

"I know."

* * *

That was the account. Here is an epilogue, of sorts:

Katriana Isolde had died when her voice stopped. She had suffered multiple concussions, which is, in my mind, the only excuse for singing Tori Amos.

The faux bodyguard had been hired by Britva, who was the man in charge of Father's original kidnapping and Mother's death. His pride had been sorely wounded by Father's escape; mine was when Father was proclaimed clinically insane. I eventually led Interpol into catching him—an anonymous tip, mind you.

Father went mad. I kept the local asylum from taking him in, as I did not want him spilling all my little secrets, and he lurks downstairs in front of the television drawing stick figures of him and Mother together again. I am considering having him shot. He likes to disturb me at the most annoying times.

And I? I think I have made up my mind. The window shall be shut shortly, after I test a few things with some old acquaintances I have rediscovered. Old friends, mostly, that shall be most unhappy at my presence, but a few _what ifs _as well. Mostly with Holly, who has begun to tug at my mind lately—perhaps I shall talk to her. Or kiss her. Not that it particularly matters.

And if you are still reading this Father, or the Nameless One, as I call you, let me say this; you still disgust me. I believe everything about life does, so don't bother to feel offended.

For now, the window remains. Memories, but reflections across the smooth pane, are still there. This worthless exercise has done nothing but increase these so I cannot even see outside.

Katie is on that window. I can see her, smiling that half-smile of hers. She is laughing at me, gently so, at what I fool I am making of myself.

I think that window needs to be shut now.

* * *

__

_I__ hope that was acceptable. That was my first time ever writing in the First, and I'm not about to claim I'm brilliant at it. Help, please?_

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


	6. Character Limericks

**

* * *

**

**Character Limericks**

****

_Really not that good; I made them when I was waiting for mummy-dear to pick me up from X-Country. That last one is a tad inappropriate. _

**

* * *

**

**Foaly******

There once was a centaur named Foaly,

Who was so very melancholy,

He couldn't get a date,

So he went celibate,

And was thus announced roly-poly.

* * *

**Holly**

Holly the elf loved her job,

Since she loved to punish those that rob'd,

She became oh-so-surly,

When they called her a girly,

And she was killed by a Humans' Rights mob.

* * *

****

**Root**

There once was an elf named Root,

About others he couldn't give a hoot,

He made such a fuss,

When called _Julius!_

And died during Foaly's lawsuit.

* * *

**Artemis (Junior)**

Artemis Fowl was a Mud Man,

Whose exploits gained many fans,

Fowl Manor was seiged,

By Fangirls (if you believe),

And now Arty wishes to move to other lands.

* * *

**Butler******

There once was a man named Butler,

Whose ways are so much subtler,

Althoug some say he's stupid,

He's certainly Cupid,

Since Arty thinks he's worth going after.

* * *

_Hehehe__… Don't say I didn't warn ya. (Blue Yeti; that last one was for you). _

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper


End file.
